


Win/Lose

by PoppyAlexander



Series: Sherlock Rare Pair Ficlets [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ficlet, Games They Play, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Tumblr Prompt, last minute rescues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-27 04:42:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15016898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: Sherlock solves Jim's puzzle just in time to save his life.





	Win/Lose

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by a Lovely Reader on Tumblr: "Sheriarty Hurt/Comfort"

Sherlock picks the last of the locks and throws open the door, half-expecting to be shot on sight, not caring, needing to finish the puzzle and win.

It happens in sped-up slow motion, in hyper-detailed camera flash milliseconds. The wire around his throat, a cocksure assassin bare-faced and bare-handed. His high-shine shoes just an inch above the floor. Twitching.

The dimming of his bright-brown, wide open eyes.

Sherlock has surprise and a higher, more solid center of gravity on his side, throws up and elbow, heel strike, jab to the solar plexus and the thug falls backward, looking shocked, and his head hits some solid surface with a sound that would be sickening if the blow were not so richly deserved.

The next bit reels out maddening slow: the slump of his body to the floor, limbs at bad angles, and Sherlock rolls and drags him, slapping his face, shouting his name, laying him out on his back on the filthy tile floor. Sherlock’s knees ache as he finds his place beside the still chest, tears his shirt placket open with violence that sends buttons flying and pinging. Feels with shaky fingers for the telltale notch, threads his fingers together, hands in a palms-down stack, presses and counts.

He gets it now. That jokey code.  _Ah, ah, ah, ah…_

“Very funny. Wake up.”

Chin, hard up. Forehead, hard down, wide open throat and Sherlock roars into it, sucks, blows. Listens. Nothing.

_Been kicked around since I was born…it’s all right…it’s OK…_

“Wake.  _Up_.”

The assassin groans. Sherlock sweats. His own chest aches; he is afraid of breaking the breastbone. So small. So much behind it.

Panting as he presses. “I got here. In time. I solved. The puzzle.”

Sherlock licks his lips, looking at his bluish ones. The mark on his throat is angry red and white; when he wakes up, parts of it will bleed. Sherlock slips two fingers in his mouth to press his tongue out of the way, leans over his face, screams a breath into him as far down as it will go. He raises his face, sucks air.

Jim shudders. Like a cough he can’t get out.

“Yes!”

Sherlock drops fingers to the side of his throat, slow-motion watches as his capillaries fill and his lilac-tinged face turns pink. The wounds on this neck ooze. He breathes.

Sherlock falls back, there on his knees, collapsing onto his heels with his face turned toward the ceiling.

“No prayers, Sherlock,” Jim croak-whispers. “You’re not a child.”

Sherlock isn’t sure which to do first, but his adrenaline is peaking so he springs to his feet, raises a knee toward his chest, and stomps on the assassin’s face. Twice.

“Oh, now!…my  _shirrrt_ ,” Jim complains.

“I’ll buy you another.”

Jim is rising before Sherlock can grab him and gather him up, shaky but determined. “You took your time. I almost thought you’d failed.” He gives Sherlock a smirk. “Can’t you just let me win?”

“If you win, I lose you,” Sherlock tells him matter-of-factly, and steps close, smooths his hands down the front of Jim’s open shirt, comforting it for the loss of its buttons. “And I can never let that happen.”

Jim’s expression shifts from smug to skeptical, but the flush of his cheeks gives him away.

“Take me home, Sherlock. So I can give you your prize.”


End file.
